ood on the northeast
corner of El Paso and San Antonio Streets, one armed with a shotgun and
the other with a pistol, and started to "throw down" on Stoudenmayer,
who was approaching from the other side of the street. But before
either got his artillery into action, the Marshal jerked his two
pistols and killed both, then quietly continued his stroll, over their
prostrate bodies, and past them, up the street. It was such an
obviously workmanlike job that it threw a chill into the hardiest of
the sixty-eight survivors,--so much of a chill that, though
Stoudenmayer paraded streets and threaded saloon and dance-hall throngs
all the rest of the afternoon, seeking his prey, not a single man of
them could he find; all stayed close in their dens.

But that the thug-leaders were not idle Stoudenmayer was not long
learning. In the last moments of twilight, just before the pall of
night fell upon the town, the Marshal was standing on the east side of
El Paso Street, midway between Oregon and San Antonio Streets, no cover
within reach of him. Suddenly, without the slightest warning, a heavy
fusillade opened on him from the opposite side of the street, a
fusillade so heavy it would have decimated a company of infantry. At
least a hundred men fired at him at the word, and it was a miracle he
did not go down at the first volley. But he was not even scathed.
Drawing his pistols, Stoudenmayer marched upon the enemy, slowly but
steadily, advancing straight, it seemed, into the jaws of death, but
firing with such wonderful rapidity and accuracy that seven of his foes
were killed and two wounded in almost as many seconds, although all
kept close as possible behind the shelter of the _portal_ columns. And
every second he was so engaged, at least a hundred guns, aimed by cruel
trained eyes, that scarce ever before had missed whatever they sought
to draw a bead on, were pouring out upon him a hell of lead that must
have sounded to him like a flight of bees.

But stand his iron nerve and fatal snap-shooting the thugs could not.
Before he was half way across the street, the hostile fire had ceased,
and his would-be assassins were flying for the nearest and best cover
they could find. Out of the town they slipped that night, singly and
in squads, boarding freight trains north and east, stages west and
south, stealing teams and saddle stock, some even hitting the trails
afoot, in stark terror of the man. The next morning El Paso found